INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, UPON THE Death and Funeral Of Her Late MAJESTY Q. MARY OF Blessed Memory.  
By J. TALBOT.  
LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head, near the Inner-Temple-Gate, in Fleetstreet, 1695.   

To His GRACE CHARLES Duke of SOMERSET, Earl of HERTFORD, Viscount BEAUCHAMP of HATCH, Baron SEYMOUR of TROWBRIDGE, Chancellor of the University of CAMBRIDGE, Lord High Steward of CHICHESTER, AND Knight of the Most Noble Order of the GARTER.  
THE Ambition I had to testify to the World both the Veneration I own to the Memory of so Excellent a Princess, and the Honour I have for the Worth of so Noble a Patron, has prompted me, after a long Distrust of my Abilities, and a just Apprehension of the Disadvantage I have in coming after so many abler Pens, (who have left me this Way only unattempted by Themselves) to lay myself, and these my Endeavours at Your Grace's Feet.  
Your Grace has every Way the best Title to this Performance, both as the Head of that Learned Body, whereof I am an unworthy Member; and of that Noble Family, which, by Your Grace's Favour, I have the Honour to depend on; and particularly, as One, who, with Your Illustrious Lady, had so Eminent a Share in the Mournful Solemnity that occasioned the following Lines, which, together with all the Labours of my Life, are humbly recommended to Your Grace's Patronage, by  
Your GRACE'S Most Humble and Most Obedient Servant, J. TALBOT.   

INSTRUCTIONS TO A PAINTER, etc.  

'TIS past!— The dismal Pomp of Grief is done!  
Sorrow and Art their utmost force have shown,  
And every Muse with tributary Verse  
Has well adorned the Great Maria's Hearse.  
Now let the Painter with the Poet join,  
With skilful Grief to frame some sad Design;  
All Arts must mourn the Great Maria's Fall,  
For she encouraged, loved, and cherished All.   

Thou, whose wise Art, and whose unerring Hand,  
In speaking Forms all Passions can command;  
And by each arbitrary Touch can move  
Our Grief or Joy, our Hatred or our Love:  
Thou, whose just Pencil often has expressed,  
Of all her Sex the Greatest, and the Best;  
Whilst every charming Feature did impart  
New Wonders to our Eyes, new Beauties to thy Art:  
Change now thy Style, and let thy Pencil show  
This last sad Office to Maria due:  
Let no gay Object through this Piece be seen,  
For Death and Sorrow is the gloomy Scene,  
Mournful Attire, pale Looks, and weeping Eyes,  
And (could thy Art express them) Groans and Sighs.   

First, Painter, draw the beauteous sovereign laid  
In restless Anguish on the Fatal Bed;  
Show how the rude Distemper wildly preys  
On all the hallowed Beauties of her Face:  
Paint the famed Sons of Art, with watchful Eyes,  
Waiting each Symptom of the fierce Disease;  
In all their Looks describe their pious Strife,  
Their Zeal to rescue this important Life.  
But Oh! in vain their fruitless Skill they try,  
In vain their well-weighed Medicines they apply,  
Too weak to quell the potent Enemy:  
The fair Outworks already he has gained,  
Nor can the Royal Fort be long maintained;  
Proud of his Force, he storms her labouring Heart,  
Thence spreads Infection round to every Part,  
And mocks the feeble Succours of their baffled Art.   

Then, all amazed, the Sons of Art prepare  
In softest Terms to utter their Despair.  
William, who in their Looks perceives his Fate,  
Unable to sustain the mighty Weight  
Of his vast Grief, nor bearing to survive  
So dear a Loss, sinks, and denies to live.   

In just bold Strokes let thy nice Pencil show  
The mournful Majesty of Royal Woe;  
Paint in his Face the Horror that possessed  
His Soul, and all the Tumult of his Breast:  
Death in all other Shapes he could despise,  
Secure of Harms, and fearless of Surprise;  
But Oh! He could not see it in Maria's Eyes.   

Again restored, again the Hero falls,  
And blames the Skill which his lost Sense recalls;  
Bids his sad Friends forbear th'unkind Relief,  
Which rashly with his Life renews his Grief.   

Alone Maria bears the dreadful Shock,  
Alone prepares to meet the coming Struck;  
Wondering she views the sad Distraction round,  
And chides the Grief which in each Face she found:  
Then calls the Holy Men, who near her wait,  
Slow to pronounce the last Resolves of Fate;  
And (for she read their Message in their Eyes)  
Bids them impart the Heav'enly Mysteries:  
Void of all Female Fears, all Mortal Cares,  
Wants not their Counsels, but requests their Prayers;  
For she in Death no Terror could descry,  
Who all her Life had studied how to die.   

Then with her latest Breath—  
She calls the King, desirous to impart  
The last kind Wishes of her faithful Heart:  
The mournful King with tender Haste repairs,  
His Breast still big with Grief, his Eyes with Tears:  
She sees the Briny Tide profusely roll,  
She sees and shares the Tempest of his Soul;  
Th' infectious Sorrow teaches her to grieve,  
She now gins to wish a short Reprieve,  
And for his Sake could be content to live.  
Fain would she speak— But Oh! her Voice affords  
No easy Vent to Thoughts too big for Words.  
She tried— But still th' imperfect Accents hung  
On the disordered Organ of her Tongue.   

Here, Painter, thy bold Art may well supply  
The Utterance which hard Nature did deny,  
And freely speak their mutual Agonies  
In the sad silent Language of their Eyes.   

And now the Tyrant Death must exercise  
His last wild Ravage on his Beauteous Prize:  
Till now the subtle Foe by slow Degrees,  
Though with sure Force, her Vital Powers did seize;  
Till now his Rage, by some just Awe confined,  
Had spared the sacred Temple of her Mind:  
But Oh! at last, impatient of Delay,  
And eager to possess the Royal Prey,  
He snatches Speech, and Sense, and Breath away.  
Maria saw, and met the lifted Dart;  
(Well might it pierce, but could not shock her Heart:)  
At last, unequal in the mighty Strife,  
In a soft Sigh She yields her spotless Life.   

See how defaced the goodly Fabric lies,  
Never had Death so fair a Sacrifice.  
So the proud Tyrant, who, like Death, does try  
To rage's in Universal Monarchy,  
By boundless Lust of Empire prompted on,  
Prepares to conquer some important Town;  
His fierce Machine's with dreadful Force does raise,  
First storms, and then demolishes the Place.   

Cruel Disease! Had not thy Fury sown  
Its wide Infection round the slaughtered Town,  
But must thy impious Malice climb the Throne!  
Can not so large, so populous a Stage  
Furnish both Room and Fuel to thy Rage?   

Must thy bold Sacrilege aspire so high,  
As to profane Anointed Majesty?  
Had not Plebeian Deaths thy Thirst appeased,  
But must a Royal Victim crown thy Feast?   

In various Shapes the wild Disorder trace,  
Which every Heart declared in every Face:  
Paint the just Grief which in each Eye was seen,  
Whilst Some the Mistress mourned, but All the Queen.   

But Painter, like thy wise Apelles, spread  
A thick wrought Veil round the sad Sovereign's Head:  
For Oh! What Pen, what Pencil can express  
The Transports which his tortured Soul oppress?  
No Tongue, no Art can speak the boundless Grief,  
Above Description, and beyond Belief.   

And now the fatal News abroad is spread,  
And weeping Crowds lament Maria Dead;  
Crowds which had thronged before her Palace-Gate,  
To wait the dark Decrees of doubtful Fate.  
Fame takes their echoing Griefs at first Rebound,  
Whilst sighing Winds proclaim the mournful Sound,  
And Universal Sorrow reigns around.   

Here, Painter, let thy skilful Pencil draw  
The Venerable Founders of our Law:  
Show with what deep Concern the Patriots meet,  
Forgetful now of Peace or War to treat.  
A silent Horror all the Place does fill,  
And the great Business of the World stands still:  
The wise Resolves which listening Nations wait  
Are all adjourned, whilst Great Maria's Fate  
Becomes the only Theme of this sad Day's Debate.   

In mournful Eloquence both Orders show  
What to the Queen, what to the King they own;  
And in their wise Addresses both prepare  
T'express their Grief for Her, for Him their Care.   

By these great Patterns of just Sorrow shown,  
The Loyal City, and the Reverend Gown  
Condole their sovereign's Loss, and speak their own.  
Isis and Cham offer their pious Tears,  
And pay the mournful Honours of their Verse:  
Their Learned Sons with humble Grief attend;  
These Noble Somerset does recommend,  
The Muse's Glory, and the Muse's Friend:  
Those Valiant Ormond leads, in Arms renowned,  
By Arts and Arms with Deathless Laurels crowned.  
Each Province now deputes its Loyal Chief,  
To claim a Subject's Share in William's Grief;  
Each Loyal Chief, with Trouble and Surprise,  
Renews his Sorrows from sad William's Eyes.   

Next, Painter, to Whitehall the Scene translate,  
And in dark Colours paint the mournful State:  
Show the sad Ensigns of Dead Majesty,  
Which all around in dismal Glory lie,  
At once to trouble, and to please the Eye.  
Here sighing Crowds with curious Grief resort,  
Who ne'er till now went Sad from Mary's Court.  
But shorten here this melancholy Scene,  
Our Griefs already have too tedious been;  
And more of this black Pomp must yet be seen.   

For now the sad Solemnity proceeds,  
Which to the Western Temple slowly leads.  
Paint an unusual Blackness in the Air,  
Where hovering Clouds in gloomy Throngs prepare  
The Glorious Grief below to view and share.   

See how the Royal Virtues all attend;  
Each Royal Virtue was Maria's Friend:  
Each Royal Virtue hangs her drooping Head,  
Their deepest Sorrows All profusely shed,  
And all lament their loved Maria Dead.   

Kind Charity moves sadly on before,  
Followed by weeping Multitudes of Poor:  
These were the favourites of the Royal Fair,  
The daily Object of her Pious Care,  
As She (alas, the Fate!) of their Despair.  
With Zeal their low Necessities she sought,  
With tender Speed her early Succours brought:  
Thus with a large, and yet a prudent Hand,  
She scattered her wide Bounties round the Land;  
And, like the Sun, munificently bright,  
Wheree'er she looked, brought Plenty, Warmth, and Light.   

Mourn Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrow's shed:  
Kind Charity laments her loved Maria Dead.   

Next of the Train Fair Piety appears,  
Her lovely Face disguised with comely Tears.  
Behind her weep the Sacred Ministers  
Who to high Heaven conveyed Maria's Prayers:  
Oft have they knelt before Maria's Throne,  
And from her Saintlike Zeal improved their own.  
Maria oft their holy Labours praised,  
And oft, unasked, their modest Merits raised.   

The happy Church her first Regards did share,  
Whilst her respectful Love did well declare  
The Daughter's Reverence, and the Mother's Care.   

But Oh! what Tongue, what Angel can rehearse  
(Maria oft with Angels did converse)  
The wondrous Raptures hid from Mortal View,  
Which only Heaven, and heavens blessed Darling knew?  
When the fair Saint, in Transports unconfined,  
Displayed the boundless Force of her enlarged Mind;  
When, like Elijah's, her winged Soul did move  
In the bright Vehicle of Flaming Love.  
Her Fellow-Saints with wondrous Joy looked down,  
And with some high Reward prepared to crown  
An Ardour scarcely Second to their own.  
'Twas all heavens Voice Maria should be gone,  
T' adorn their Choir, and their Creator's Throne:  
They came, and called her to the Glorious Flight  
Towards their fair Seats of unexhausted Light.   

Mourn Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:  
Fair Piety laments her loved Maria Dead.   

Next, Painter, of the Venerable Band,  
Draw Wisdom joined with Justice, Hand in Hand:  
Justice and Wisdom constantly were known  
The fair Supporters of Maria's Throne,  
The two bright Jewels that adorned her Crown.  
These followed by Augusta's worthy Chief,  
No common Sharer in the common Grief:  
He by the two Wise Orders of our State,  
In awful Pomp of Sorrow sadly Great.  
Augusta oft with Pleasure has obeyed,  
With Pride submitted whilst Maria swayed:   

Oft has she viewed with Joy her rising Pile,  
The Glory of her Walls, and of our Isle:  
Ambitiously she urged the Bvilder's Haste,  
And hoped, e'er few Revolving Moons were passed,  
Maria's Presence would her Altar's grace,  
Maria's Prayers would consecrate the Place.  
Oft has our Senate thanked the Royal Fair,  
And owned the Public Safety to her Care:  
Oft have they blessed the Strong, but Gentle Hand,  
Which could their Duty and their Love command;  
As oft admired the Godlike Majesty  
That governed with a sweet and watchful Eye,  
And could so well Great William's Throne supply.  
Fearless they rested, and secure of Fate,  
Whilst He abroad defends, and She at home supports the State   

Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:  
Justice and Wisdom mourn their loved Maria Dead.   

Strew all your Flowers, and moisten them with Tears;  
For see— the Royal Pomp of Death appears,  
Insulting proudly o'er Maria's Hearse.  
See where the Gloomy conqueror sits on high,  
With sullen Smiles, and horrid Majesty;  
Views his Fair Captive, and surveys his State,  
Whilst weeping Princes on his Triumph wait.  
The Purple Steeds their crested Pride forget,  
Forget the wont Swiftness of their Feet;  
Slowly they move, with an unwilling Pace,  
And in their Looks a Humane Grief confess.  
With Tears the sad Spectators all behold,  
Nor can the swelling Tide be now controlled:  
Their deepest Sorrows lavishly they shed:  
All see, and seeing mourn their loved Maria Dead:   

But stay;— What Virtue's that Divinely Great,  
Supported next in melancholy State?  
Oh! 'tis Elisa, gracefully Severe,  
Lovely and Sad, as any Virtue there.  
Elisa, Great in Sorrow, as in Blood,  
Laments the Fair, the Royal, and the Good.  
Maria oft her Virtues would commend,  
Oft own her by the happy Name of Friend:  
Pleased in each shining Excellence to find  
The just Resemblance of her Spotless Mind.  
Well worthy She, of all, to mourn in Chief,  
Both from her Birth, her Honours, and her Grief.  
A deep lose Veil o'er her fair Visage flows,  
Which hides her Sorrows, but her Grace's shows:  
So the bright Sun breaks through some sullen Cloud,  
Whose envious Frowns his watery Glories shroud;  
Nor can that Shade his Boundless Beams confine,  
At once he seems to Weep, at once does Shine.   

Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:  
The Great Elisa mourns her loved Maria Dead.   

A Beauteous Train attends the mournful Fair,  
Grief in their Steps, and in their Eyes Despair.  
These oft Maria's vacant Hours enjoyed,  
(Wisely her vacant Hours she still employed)  
Oft have they praised the Beauties of her Mind,  
Where Mildness with high Majesty was joined;  
Where State with easy Freedom did preside,  
Without the base Extremes of Meanness, or of Pride.   

Mourn, Albion, mourn; thy deepest Sorrows shed:  
Ye Fair Assistants, mourn your loved Maria Dead.   

The Western Dome salutes its Royal Guest,  
The fairest Saint which yet its Shrines has blessed:  
Whilst mournful Music in melodious Sounds,  
The ravished Sense at once delights and wounds.  
Here, Artist, wish thy Skill could paint each Strain  
Which in sad Notes so sweetly did complain:  
(So Orpheus mourned when his loved Fair was slain.)  
Wish thou couldst show the Heavenly Words that hung  
Upon the holy Preacher's charming Tongue;  
Words sweet as David wrote, and Asaph sung;  
Words whose sad Eloquence does well relate,  
With pleasing Grief, the Fair Maria's Fate;  
And with such Life her Dying Virtues paint,  
We mourn the sovereign, but admire the Saint.  
So Ancient Rome, with false, but pious Pride,  
Her less deserving Caesar Deified:  
She hears his Death with Sorrow and Surprise,  
Till from the flaming Pile th' unfettered Eagle flies;  
Then, when th' Imperial Bird gins to soar,  
All own the God, and weep the Man no more.   

But now the Latest Honours all are paid,  
And the dark Grave receives the Mighty Dead,  
There with her Hallowed Ancestors to lie  
Entombed in Reverend Obscurity.  
Here a fresh Stream of flowing Grief returns,  
In speechless Horror each Assistant mourns;  
Till deepmouthed Cannon the sad Silence break,  
And in loud Peals a Dreadful Sorrow speak:  
The echoing Air returns the mournful Sound,  
And Universal Nature groans around.   

Cease, Painter, cease— Thy Widowed Art give over;  
In silent Tears Maria's Death deplore,  
And vow a Pilgrimage for Years to come  
To Fair Maria's consecrated Tomb:  
There undisturbed let her blessed Relics lie,  
Nor think Maria's Name can ever die,  
Whose Death, as well as Life, deserves a History.   
FINIS.